One minute, I’m enjoying a leisurely latte with The First Husband, before heading out to meet Wisewebwoman for lunch. The next, I’m doing a face plank in the bathroom washbasin, spewing blood from my nose all over the porcelain and onto the cabinet.
As a child, I was prone to frequent, sudden nose bleeds. I’ve read that epileptics know when a seizure is about to happen, because they get a sudden strong feeling of deja vu. I’m not sure how or why, but I always knew when a nose bleed was about to happen. I would creep into the dining room and hide under the table, where I would sit and watch the drops of blood fall into my lap. The dining room was reserved for special occasions, with its ponderous mahogany furniture protected by dust sheets, under which I could bleed in peace.
The She Devil loved it when my nose bled in public. She knew that, if she danced around and made a fuss, the blood would flow faster and stronger, as fear made my blood pressure rise. As a teenager, she would bring her friends into the house and let them watch while she made my nose bleed. All she had to do was advance on me, pretending she would tear my blouse open, while chanting “Any hair on your chest yet, Chasaveen?” and, sure as eggs is eggs, my nose would begin to spurt. Her cronies thought it screamingly funny and came back again and again for a replay.
As the years went by and especially after The She Devil left home, the frequency of my nosebleeds decreased, and they had ceased entirely by the time I reached my mid-teens. This episode came out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever. And, unlike my childhood seizures, the blood was not a slow, crimson ooze. This was a fountain of bright scarlet, worthy of a candidate for the tender ministrations of Gregory House MD.
The First Husband was a Trojan. Despite his morbid fear of blood – he can’t even watch a gory scene on television, though he knows it’s just ketchup! – he brought ice and wet cloths and even cleaned up all the blood. He also tried to persuade me I should go to Emergency, but I couldn’t see the point. Like Jan, I don’t have a lot of confidence in doctors.
The really big issue, which no doctor could address, is that I missed my chance to meet Wisewebwoman. And I’m really pissed about that. We talked on the phone (me mumbling around a washcloth stuffed with ice) and agreed we will meet when she comes back to Ontario in April. I can’t wait.
Unless you’ve been hibernating in a cave somewhere, you’ll know that the Winter Olympics have begun in Vancouver. Canada, of course, has been saturated with the stuff for months now, wall-to-wall coverage of torch runs through tiny towns from one end of the country to the other, relentless merchandising by HBC (nee Hudson’s Bay Company, incorporated in 1670 by King Charles II) of their deadly dull Olympic apparel, etc. etc. etc.
Not to put a tooth in it, the whole thing is driving me insane. Gazillions of dollars being poured out so that countries can parade their doped to the eyeballs athletes before the world and claim bragging rights as great nations because their ice dancers can out-pirouette some other country’s ice dancers, while a bunch of toothless geriatrics (aka the International Olympic Committee) lay down ridiculous procedural rules designed to protect their lucrative trade marks, at the same time ignoring blatant cheating? Give me a break.
Like I say, it drives me bonkers. But what makes me want to reach for the nearest weapon of mass destruction is the bloody so-called Olympic “anthem,” “I Believe.” With all due respect to the singer, who seems like a nice lass, not a bit of side to her, unlike her fellow-Quebecer, Celine Dion, who has completely lost the run of herself, that song makes my ears bleed. And the refrain, repeated endlessly as refrains are wont to be, “I believe that together we will fly / I believe in the power of you and I,” is like a thousand nails on a thousand blackboards. Hanging by his or her dangly bits is too good for whoever came up with that one.
The First Husband and I watched An Education on DVD last night. I had to act as interpreter on occasion, as the accents were a bit much for him, but I think it is fair to say that he quite enjoyed it. As for me, I was in seventh heaven, and not just because it’s a fantastic film. I was, of course, reliving the past again, especially the bit where I had an illicit fling with a much older guy when I was only 15.
Like the Peter Sarsgaard character in the movie, he flirted with the wrong side of the law, which may have been why I found him so fascinating. What he saw in me, I have no idea. From today’s perspective, I think he might have been a bit of a pervert – why else would a man in his 20s be interested in a callow schoolgirl – but our relationship never progressed beyond some steamy snogging in his VW Beetle. (What? I did say he flirted with the wrong side of the law, didn’t I? I doubt if he ever made it as far as a sports car, since he was really only a wannabe thug.)
But he introduced me to Black Sobranie cigarettes, which I thought the height of decadent sophistication, and took me to bars and cafes. I wore mini-dresses I’d made for myself (I was quite the seamstress back then!) and kept at my best friend’s house, where I’d change before meeting my Bad Boy. She, of course, was my co-conspirator and just thrilled by it all, quite happy to be the decoy if she could live vicariously through my experience.
It all petered out after a few weeks – believe it or not, because I got bored. Even at that age, it didn’t take me too long to realize that there had to be more to life than sitting around listening to Bad Boy and his mates bragging about fights they’d started and/or finished, or their girlfriends yakking about makeup and nail polish. None of them had ever read anything beyond Mechanic’s Weekly or Photoplay and they didn’t seem to be interested in anything outside their own small circle. It was like dating The Fonz, except Bad Boy wasn’t remotely funny. Just as well, really; I’ve always been a sucker for funny guys.
Where am I?
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